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Title: Where the West begins
Author: Austin Hall
Release date: November 7, 2024 [eBook #74701]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Street & Smith Corporation
Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHERE THE WEST BEGINS ***
WHERE THE WEST BEGINS
By Austin Hall
Author of “The Old Master,” “The Love Call,” Etc.
Billy was only a cowboy and Holman was something of a
cattle king, but social distinctions didn’t figure with
the U. S. marshal.
Billy waited. Out in the sagebrush a black object was shunting hither
and thither over the desert road, sometimes lost in the dipping swales
and again hidden by the glare of the sun scintillating upon the wind
shield. From the lee of the machine a ribbon of dust trailed out into
the distance. Billy put on his hat and spoke to his pinto, reining him
to a slight knoll to the left whence he could get a good view of the
whole country. Says Billy to the pinto:
“Pinhead, we’re going to have company--you an’ me. That’s old man
Holman. He’s down from his city; an’ he’s sore an’ ornery; an’ he’s got
about as many kicks in his system as a centipede with a toothache--all
because you’ve been drinking his water an’ because I’m a-living. An’
we’ve got to move on, Pin, so he says--you an’ me--just because he’s
Holman an’ you an’ me ain’t nothin’ but nothin’.”
The pinto cocked up one ear at the approaching car. In his own way he
scented the intrusion. Billy lit a cigarette and waited. From the knoll
they looked down upon the expanse of the wide valley, north, south and
east. The north was a carpet of verdure and a network of irrigation
canals--reclaimed desert; the south was a stretch of sagebrush and sand,
and an occasional oasis; while in the east, about three miles away, a
distinct line marked the border of desert and alfalfa--the hither side a
dry parched yellow; the other side a cool living green. In the west,
behind him, lay the mountains. Billy had a homestead at the foot of the
mountains.
Like most homesteads it was ramshackle--a plain unpainted box house and
a shed barn. There is something pathetic about all homesteads and this
one was no exception; had it not been for a certain grim humor and the
fact that Billy was a real cowman it would have been just like any
other.
There was a streak of perversity about Billy Magee. When the idea of
nesting first entered his head he had looked about for a place that
would give excitement as well as a place to squat, until his Uncle
Samuel should think fit to bestow upon him the dignity of a patent and
the appendant distinction of being a law-abiding taxpayer. Just for that
excitement Billy had planted his homestead in the strip of foothill
level that separated the great free mountain range from the irrigated
section of the valley. The green stretches belonged to the Holman Land
and Water Company; and Holman, the president and whole works of the
company had always regarded that strip as his own private property and
had treated it as such, because no one had hitherto had the hardihood to
file on it and make the promise to the government that they intended it
for a home. The government range, in this instance, was a wild dry
country. That it was still public land was due simply to the lack of
accessible underground water. The creeks and springs had been taken up
years before by individuals and had later been bought out by Holman.
With the water in the big man’s hands the rest could go hang! Then along
had come Billy Magee and his homestead. If the trick were successful,
Billy, as well as Holman, would have contiguous access to the great free
pasture. It worried Holman; Billy was inured to the desert and
accustomed to its ways; wherefore it was hardly likely that his motives
were those of an air-castle tenderfoot. Knowing the country as he did
and realizing the value of water the cowboy would hardly have filed on
the land unless he was pretty sure of just what he was doing.
So Holman figured.
Billy waited until the car came to a stop. A heavy, broad-shouldered
individual sat at the wheel, a man with gray hair and a square-cut,
have-my-own-way sort of jaw.
“Magee?” he asked. He looked at the cowboy out of cold gray eyes.
“Yes, sir. That’s what my ma called me.”
“Ahem.” The big man sparred. “You received my letter last winter, I
believe?”
“Sure did,” said Billy. “And I answered it. Nothin’ doin’. She’s my
homestead and I’m going to keep her.”
The other nodded. “Are you sure?” He pulled out a check book. “I haven’t
much time. Here’s one thousand dollars, if you relinquish--or, if you
don’t wish to relinquish, we’ll call it a payment of one thousand
dollars on the quarter section--against the day that you get your
title.”
Billy Magee shook his head.
“Nope. She’s a pretty fair piece of land. Besides”--he waved his hand
toward the range--“take a look at that.”
The other bit his lip.
“Where’s your water? You can’t use my creeks. I’ve served notice to my
foremen to keep you out. So far I have been lenient, but I don’t propose
to give you a bit more now than the law allows. You can’t raise stock
without water. I own the creeks. You can’t drill a well because your
water level is too deep, here, for successful pumping.”
Billy smiled. “She’s a fair homestead at that,” he answered. “I think
I’ll keep her.”
“What’s your game.”
“No game at all,” said Billy. “Just a notion. I want to pay taxes and be
a real citizen.”
“You won’t relinquish?”
“Not to-day--nor to-morrow.”
The big man thought a bit; and frowned; then to relieve his feelings he
pulled a black cigar from his pocket and lighted it. Billy kept company
with a cigarette.
“Let me tell you something, my boy. I’m giving you a fair chance.
There’s a thousand cold, hard dollars in this paper. If you take it and
give me your word I’ll help you get your title--grubstake you--and when
you are done you can sign the land over to me for another thousand.”
“Suppose I don’t take the thousand?”
“That’s your funeral, not mine. A thousand’s a nice chunk of money.”
“Sure is,” said Billy, “only----”
“Only what?”
“That I don’t like that kind of money. Come on, Holman, tell me the
truth. Didn’t you get all those twenty thousand acres down yonder in the
irrigated belt in just this fashion? I take it that you know the law on
dummy homesteading?”
No answer.
“Well, I gave Uncle Sam my oath that I was after this land for Billy
Magee.”
“Then we can’t do business?”
“Not to-day.”
“Huh! Well, you’ve got the law on your side. I can’t throw you off, of
course--unless I want to take a chance on the Federal prison. But”--he
grinned maliciously--“better watch your homestead.”
With that he started up his machine and hit down the road through the
desert fringe to the great green belt that marked the patented holdings
of the Holman Land and Water Company.
Billy watched him go. Then he leaned over to his pinto. “Pinhead,” he
said, “you an’ me is in fer it. I wonder what the game is? Anyway, just
as soon as we hear from Uncle Samuel we’re going to have a vacation.”
An hour later he had ridden out of the desert into the irrigated section
to the post office. A young lady of pleasant eyes passed out a long
envelope with the legend “Department of the Interior” in the upper
left-hand corner. Billy tore it open.
It was a leave of absence, à la red tape, granted to one, William Magee.
Homestead entry--Serial No. 56943J, et cetera.
When he had read it he put it in his pocket.
“Well, Pinhead,” he spoke, “it’s you an’ me off to see the old boys
again. We’re going back to the old outfit, where they raise real cattle.
Then we’ll come back to take care of Holman.”
II
Billy Magee was coming home.
During the five months that had elapsed he had picked up enough shekels
to last him through another seven months of vigil. He had bought
groceries, tobacco, magazines and a ukulele; and as soon as he could get
a wagon he would hitch up and go for his provender. In the meantime he
was bound for his homestead.
Billy was a musical cuss; that’s why he had bought the ukulele. As he
loped along on the patient Pinhead he warbled the air full of music; it
was melody, sweet and rich and tuned to the joy of home: for that was
his nature--and the why of the homestead--just a place that he could
call his own and a place where he could hang his hat.
“If we only had a wife,” he confided to Pinhead, “we’d make this little
old homestead a place worth while.”
He had come up through the sagebrush; at the last turn below the knoll
he came into view of the side of the house; and he stopped.
“Well, I’ll be dog-goned!” exclaimed Billy Magee.
Upon a clothesline, stretched from one corner of the house to a juniper
post in the yard were a number of garments that had never been worn by
Billy Magee; to wit--a calico dress, three pairs of silk stockings, some
fluffy bits of lingerie, together with handkerchiefs and other articles.
He took a long breath. Though he was a handsome man he was anything but
a gallant; he would do anything rather than face a woman. Which was
perfectly natural considering the mode of life to which he had been
accustomed. Bunk houses do not make for polish; and Billy was a
confirmed bachelor. Girls were fairy creatures to be thought of--beings
dreamy, distant, illusive--to be longed for! And here was one on his own
homestead! For a moment he felt like giving up and returning whence he
had come. But he had still the leaven of curiosity. He had quite
forgotten Holman. Anyway, he would see what she looked like.
He left the pinto at the gate and entered the enclosure that he had
fenced off the year before. It was the same and yet so different. From
an open window there came a fragrance that made him hungry--not the
bacon and eggs nor the ham and coffee of the confirmed desert rat; but
the sweet irritating odor of apple pies. Surely, there was a woman. The
stockings upon the line were of silk--somehow it seemed proper for them
to be there. She would be young; and he set his mind that she would be
pretty. Oh, yes, she would be that, and she could sing--from the house
came the sweet flood of a love song.
Billy knocked at the door--his own door. Upon the panel was a piece of
paper. He read:
Out where the world is in the making,
Where fewer hearts in despair are aching,
That’s where the West begins.
Where there’s more of singing and less of sighing,
Where there’s more of giving, and less of buying,
Where a man makes friends without half trying,
That’s where the West begins.
“By golly,” said Billy, half to himself and half to the poem, “that’s
where she begins, all right.”
Then he smiled and took off his hat; for the maker of the tantalizing
pies was looking at him through the screen door. She was about as good
as anything he had ever looked at. No wonder the pies smelled good! She
was a demure little brunette, with cheery red lips and laughter; hair
waving and done in a fashion half girlish and half womanish.
“Oh!” she said.
Billy traced his finger over the poem; he held his sombrero in the other
hand.
“How do y’ do?” he answered.
She nodded pleasantly; her black eyes were not critical like those of
most girls; her smile was encouraging.
“I was just reading this here poem. The fellow that wrote it sure had an
idee about the West.”
She was frank and kindly.
“Do you like it?” She looked down at his chaps and at his high-heeled
boots. It was as if he had walked out of the poem.
“‘Out where the West begins,’” she quoted.
“Who wrote it?”
“Chapman. He was a Denver newspaper man. Some one had started a dispute
as to where the real West begins; so he sat down one day just before the
paper went to press and typed out the answer. I think he got it just
right. Won’t you come in?”
Evidently she was practicing the spirit of the verse. Billy stepped into
his own house. And he noted the difference; everything had been
renovated and feminized by the coy hands of the girl before him. His own
furniture was gone. In its place was a new outfit--a small range,
shining tinware on the walls, a table with a white spread--everything
spic and span in tidy shape. After getting him a chair she opened the
door to take a peep at the pies. In the interval Billy had time to
think.
“You must excuse me,” she said when she had finished her inspection. “I
didn’t want them to burn. They are the first pies I have cooked on our
new homestead.”
Billy nodded. “You have taken up a homestead?”
“Oh, yes. Isn’t it dandy? You must excuse my diction; but I’d rather
talk like this now that we are in the real West. I always did want to go
homesteading, even when I was a little girl; but I never thought that I
was to have the chance. You see, up to a year ago I was teaching school
back in Ohio. I always loved the West--loved to read about it and wonder
what it was really like. I had a pet dream of a real homestead where we
could go out all by ourselves, like our forefathers--or Robinson
Crusoe--and build up everything from nothing. I think it just the most
fun! The very first thing I did when we came here was to nail Chapman’s
verse to the door. Don’t you think that the men of the West are
different?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Billy. “Most of them are, I guess; but I am
afraid that there are some who get across the line without knowing it.
How did you happen to start homesteading?”
“Oh, as to that”--she sat down and began to pat her hair, as if she
could make herself look even prettier--“as to that--it was on account of
my brother Arthur. He was a bookkeeper. The work in the office had
undermined his health and the doctor advised him to try out of doors, to
go West if he could. We had saved some money; so we decided to go
homesteading.”
“What brought you to this particular section?”
“Well, I suppose it was an accident. We first came to Los Angeles to
look around. Then we purchased an old car and started exploring. One day
Arthur was at the land office for this district, going over the books,
and ran across this quarter section.”
It puzzled Billy Magee.
“I see,” he said. “You located the land through the books and then you
came here?”
“Yes. But we took the precaution to have a surveyor come with us. We
stopped the first night at the Holman place. Do you know Mr. Holman?”
“I have seen him,” said Billy.
“I think he is very nice. He said he would do all he could for us. He
said that he knew the location--that a mongrel horse thief had lived on
it once but had been run out of the country. Just imagine--romance from
the very start! A real horse thief--and I living in his house! Wouldn’t
it be terrible if he should come back?” She laughed. “I always thought
that they hanged the horse thieves from the bridges.”
Billy was itching under the skin but he held back his feelings. He said:
“Perhaps they would have hanged this fellow had they had a bridge. I
have an idea that Holman would build one out of his own pocket if he
could get a chance at him.”
“That’s what he said.”
Billy grinned.
“Supposin’ you met this black fellow--he must be black to be a horse
thief, you know--would you be afraid?”
She laughed. “I don’t know. Mr. Holman gave me a pistol with which to
protect myself; but I don’t think that I’d use it.”
“Why?”
“Well, because: First, I’d kind of like to know a real Western horse
thief--he must be wonderful to keep living, if the West is what they say
it is--and second, because I don’t believe that any girl, if she is a
real girl, has need to be afraid of a mere man. Most any man can be
talked into good humor if you just know how. I’d like the chance of
subduing a real horse thief, bare-handed.”
Certainly she was subduing Billy. The cowboy was ready to give up his
homestead; but he wanted, first, to get at the motive of Holman. Surely
the big man must have known that Billy would return at the expiration of
his leave of absence. Low as he held him he did not think that the
cattle king would stoop so low as to deceive this girl. Perhaps--the
thought startled--perhaps he had been able to so manipulate the land
office that the land had been thrown open to entry. Mistakes are
sometimes made. A clerical error would be very convenient to Holman.
“When did you file on this land?”
“About a month ago. Why? Is there anything wrong?”
“Oh, no. Only I am a cowboy and have lived in this country all my life.
I know a great deal about homesteads. For instance, it is sometimes
convenient to have witnesses who knew you at, or about, the time of
entry. Have you received your notice of allowance?”
“It came about three days ago. Do you wish to see it? Shall I get it?”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt if I took a peep at it.”
In a moment she had the piece of paper. Billy took it and read it. It
was the regulation notice from the department of the interior, giving the
name, Jennie Ross--serial number--township--range--meridian--everything;
and signed by the register and receiver of the land office.
“Isn’t it all right?”
“All accordin’ to Hoyle, Miss Ross. Not a thing wrong with it.” He
sniffed and looked at the oven; at the same instant the girl jumped up
with a towel.
“My pies!” she exclaimed. “I was so interested. Supposing they had
burned!”
During the interval Billy had a chance to take a piece of paper from his
pocket; when she had the pies on the table he gave her back the notice
of allowance.
“Well,” he said, “I must be going.”
She looked up at him, laughing.
“Without eating any of my pie? Shame on you. I thought you were a real
cowboy!”
“Best cowboy ever was,” grinned Billy. “Do you test them all with apple
pies? Better not let it be known. I know about a million cow-punchers
who’d be standing in line.”
“I’ll just bet that you could eat a whole pie,” she teased.
“I’m not going to call you,” returned the man. “We’ll split the pot. Cut
one in half and we’ll go evens. There now--I’ll take this one and start
over in this corner.”
“All right,” she answered. “You start over there--where the West
begins!”
There’s a time that comes to every man when he meets a girl on an even
footing. Billy was usually bashful; it was the first time that he had
ever met a real girl without stepping on his own feet or doing something
equally ridiculous and self-conscious. Before he knew it he was telling
Jennie Ross his whole history--outside his homestead experience--and
almost everything that he knew.
“Then you are a real Western cowboy,” she exclaimed. “All my life I have
wanted to know one, one who lived on the range, who lived out in the
open and thought the great free things of nature. You must meet my
brother and get acquainted.”
Then she went on to tell of their dreams--of a well, and alfalfa, fruit
trees, a mansion, avenues, driveways--a dream that was half homesteader
and half school-teacher; and most of all out of a girlish heart. Billy
listened. They stepped out on the porch; the girl pointed to the
irrigated lands in the distance.
“See,” she spoke. “They tell me that all that country was once
government land just like this--all desert.”
“It sure was,” answered the cowboy. “And it would be desert yet were it
not for the water.”
“That’s what Arthur says. It seems to me that while they were getting
water they could have drilled up here just as well as down there. When
we get our well all our dreams will come true.”
Billy did some thinking. He was no tenderfoot; he knew why the irrigated
belt extended just so far and no farther. He was familiar with the
eccentricities of water. Down there it could be tapped at a reasonable
depth and was at least semi-artesian; while up on the homestead it was
almost inaccessible--the elevation was higher and the water,
consequently, farther from the surface. Even after it was found there
was a two-hundred-foot lift before it could be utilized; and water for
irrigation purposes cannot be profitably pumped more than a hundred
feet.
But he said nothing to discourage her. She was having her dream. If he
could he would make it all come true. He was half sorry and half
doubtful; should he tell her the truth or go after Holman? He did not
care for his homestead; at the very most it had been, with him, merely a
whim--a place to hang his hat, a notion.
At last he took his leave. She stepped out to the gate where he had left
his pinto.
“You must come back and meet my brother some day. I am sure you will
like him--and I’ll have some more pies.”
“Bet you will,” said Billy. “I am going to come back. Don’t forget the
pies.”
She waved her hat at him when he was out in the sagebrush and he
answered with his sombrero. When he was beyond the knoll he reined in
his pony. He was thinking.
From the knoll he could look down at the section line that ran to the
eastward. On the desert side it could be distinguished by the straight
swath that had been cleared of sagebrush; on the other side it was
marked by the fence that ran into the distance. The fence was Holman’s.
Billy had business with Holman. He spoke to his pinto:
“Pinhead,” said Billy Magee, “we have lost our homestead. We ain’t
clever enough to deceive a lady. But we ain’t babes yet, either. You an’
me is goin’ to raise tarnation with Mr. Holman.”
Then he struck out across the country, straight down the section line
toward the irrigated belt that was the patented domain of the Holman
Land and Water Company. There was a road that ran through the desert
parallel to the belt of green. When Billy came to this road he stopped.
A black object was coming toward him--a man on horseback.
“’Lo, Billy Magee,” greeted the man. “When’d y’ get back? How’s the boys
up ‘Pop’ Mobray’s way? Goin’ back t’ nestin’?”
“Thinkin’ of it,” said Billy. “Mebbe. Don’t know what I’ll do. Y’ goin’
by the mines?”
“Yep. Expect to be at the mine to-night. Why?”
“Nothin’. Only I want to write a note. Can y’ wait? I want y’ to give it
to the stage driver. It’s to my old boss, Mobray. It’s kinda special;
seeing as how it has to deal with a funeral.”
“A funeral?”
“Yep. Leastways, almost so. There may be two. I kinda want to get news
to Pop so’s he can be on hand, when they take a certain cow-puncher,
that we know of, off to the calaboose.”
“What’s the rumpus?”
“No rumpus ’tall. It’s just that there’s some in this country that’s
busting with this here stuff what we call chivalry! We ain’t goin’ to
mention no names, nor have no hard feelin’s. Y’ ain’t seen Holman
lately?”
The other squinted one eye and whistled.
“Y’ ain’t goin’ t’ tangle with Holman, Billy?”
The cowboy nodded.
“Yep. But y’ needn’t say nothin’ to nobody. If you see a column of smoke
and sparks comin’ up from that strip of green yonder, you can know that
it’s from Holman and Billy Magee. Him an’ me is goin’ t’ have a little
round-up.”
“Better be careful, Billy. Don’t lose your head. You can’t hurt Holman.
That crowd of Mexicans that he keeps will shoot you down like a rat.
What’s the fuss? If it’s so dog-gone glorious let me in on it.”
Billy grinned. “I’d like to be accommodating but this is kinda special.
I want it all for myself. I’ll take care of the Mexicans. Will you mail
this note?”
“Make it a book. It’s your funeral.”
“That’s what Holman said,” returned Billy Magee. “And it’s the truth.
They’s goin’ to be something happen.”
It took him a long time to write that letter. When he was through he
took an envelope from his pocket. “Just happened to have the makin’s of
a note. Here she is. Can you catch that stage?”
“What’s the game?”
But the cowboy had dug his spurs into the pony and was off down the
straight section line that led through the domain of the Holman Land and
Water Company.
Billy Magee had a reason. He was mad clear through and the more he
thought the madder he got. At last he came to the line fence that marked
the border between the desert and the alfalfa. A broad gate barred his
way. On the top board were the words:
NO TRESPASSING
Billy read the sign; it was a bit different from the one that the girl
had pinned on the door. He swung the gate, cowboy fashion without
alighting from his pinto; in another minute he was upon invaded
territory. It did not bother Billy Magee. He rode straight on for a mile
and a half--then he stopped.
He was in the center of a great alfalfa field; to the left of him was a
small building and an immense stack of alfalfa; from one side of the
building a steady stream of water was flowing into a ditch that bore it
out to the fields. Some men--Mexicans--were at the stack. Several teams
with full loads were waiting their turn. One wagon was being unloaded.
Just as he rode up a last fork of hay was mowed up toward the stack.
Billy estimated the pile as close to two hundred tons. A man, evidently
a boss, was coming toward him. Billy reached for his gun.
“Hey!” said the man.
“Hey, yourself,” said Billy Magee.
The man stopped before the gun. He was a tall fellow, heavy, and though
he was of a dark complexion he was not Spanish--rather was he Irish. And
he was no coward.
“What’s the idea?” indicating the gun. “Will it go off? What’cha want?”
The cowboy rode up.
“Just this, Sweeny. I want you to git. Git! Savvy the English? See that
ditch over yonder? Take your bunch of Mexicans on the other side. And
keep them there. It’s healthy.”
“Humph!” sneered the other. “Supposin’ I refuse?”
But the man said no more; he looked into the eyes of Billy Magee and
backed away.
“What’s the idea, Billy; have you gone mad?”
“Kinda,” said the cowboy. “And I’m goin’ t’ get madder. This is dog days
and I’ve been bitten--by a dog. Here! I’ll help you get that bunch
moving.”
The gun barked. A fork of hay was rising up from a fresh load. The
bullet cut the spring rope. The mass of alfalfa dropped back to the
wagon. A splatter of Spanish followed. Billy Magee rode up to the stack.
“Come. Vamoose! Take ’em out of here, Sweeny!”
For a minute there was silence--then consternation. The men stumbled out
of the stack and began unhooking the butt chains. They all knew Billy
Magee. He was the best-natured man in the country. Everybody knew him.
Billy had gone crazy. Only one man stopped to remonstrate.
“Wait,” he said. “You, Billy. You go the loco.” He pointed to his head.
“Mebbe better for to have drink. Mebbe so”--he looked up at the sun and
wiped his head--“_caliente_!”
“You bet I’m hot,” snapped the cowboy; “but it’s not the sun. You get
down and help with those butt chains. Here you----”
The gun barked again. The frightened Mexican rolled headfirst off the
load to the shelter behind the horses. The whole outfit marched ahead;
behind came the foreman, and back of him Billy. The alfalfa was
waist-high.
“Fine lot of grass,” commented the cowboy.
The other had recovered his courage; knowing Billy he had not crossed
him. There is wisdom in discretion--also safety.
“What’s the idea? What’cha pullin’ off? Y’ can’t get by with this kinda
stuff--not nowadays. Wait till Holman hears; he’ll come howling.”
“We ain’t arguin’,” said Billy. “I told you I am mad. Ain’t nothin’ in
hell any madder. You go get Holman. When he comes I’m going to eat
him--raw.”
The foreman scratched his head.
“All right, Billy. I’ll send the old boss after you, but I ain’t
guarantee who’s goin’ to do the eating. I’ll keep my hands off. Look out
for the Mexicans.”
Billy Magee did not answer. When the Mexicans had disappeared across the
alfalfa he turned back toward the pump house. For some moments he stood
by the flow of water--fully a thousand gallons a minute. He did some
thinking--varied and yet concentered--deserts, water, homesteaders,
girls, dreams, trees, homes--love. A vague feeling had entered the
breast of Billy Magee. He had a notion that life might be worth the
living. He stepped into the shed; the hum of the motor runed in his ears
and called up a tune that was lying at the bottom of his heart. From his
pocket he drew the notebook, tore out a leaf and wrote upon it. Then he
tacked it on the wall. When he was through he looked up: the pinto was
beside the door.
“Well, Pinhead,” said Billy Magee, “she’s done. If you an’ me can hold
out an’ keep our skins from being perforated they’s goin’ to be some
truth in poetry.”
The Mexicans and Sweeny did not come back. When a man of Magee’s social
standing flourishes a gun lingering ceases to be a healthy pastime. He
could see their dim forms, mere dots, disappearing toward the ranch
house. The sun was going down, so he led his pony to the stack, picked
out a cove between two piles of alfalfa and stabled him securely by
pitching a mass of hay about the opening. Then he climbed the stack and
waited for the moon.
For Billy was not quite as mad as he seemed; he had a plan and a
deliberate way of going at it. He knew that Holman would not tolerate
his presence on the ranch but he knew also that before the big man came
he would have to deal with the Mexicans. Holman had already offered him
one thousand dollars; therefore it was almost a certainty that he would
pay an equal sum to the Mexicans if they would relieve him of the
trouble of dealing with Billy Magee. The cowboy had driven the owner’s
hands off with a gun; and the law of the land protects the rights of
property--only, Billy knew too much about the law! Instead of fearing
the Mexicans he hoped that they would come. It would be a pleasant
preliminary to his meeting with Holman. In fact it would do away with
the necessity of a fight with the big man and help him immensely in his
revenge.
Nevertheless he had a chance to sleep. It was not until the wee hours
that his estimation of Mexican valor came to its proof. Just before
daylight he was awakened by the pinto’s nickering and the simultaneous
report of a gun. In an instant he had ducked into the hay and was
worming toward the edge.
“Ah, ha!” said Billy Magee. “Now we have the fun!”
With his revolver in his hand he crawled to a point of lookout but at
first he could see nothing. There was no more shooting. Below him
stretched the sea of alfalfa; as the sun tipped the mountains to the
eastward he scanned every bit of it and at last he found what he was
after--a head lifted, a hand. Billy did not wish to kill--that hand was
a good mark.
The next instant the new daylight was cut by Spanish expletives. The
Mexican leaped to his feet with a yell and without parley fled out of
range. Billy watched for the others.
He did not have to wait long. A Mexican does not fight at a
disadvantage. He watched with considerable glee the wriggling,
frightened forms working their way out of gunshot. When they were out of
danger they stood up on their feet and disappeared toward the ranch
house.
Billy straightened and took a good look. If his simple plan was working
it ought to be coming to fruition. Sure enough he made out a dot
approaching in the distance, a fast-moving dot that could be nothing
other than a machine. The car came straight to the gate that Billy had
entered the previous afternoon and drew up at the pump house. Billy
climbed down from the stack. A man stepped from the automobile.
“Mr. Magee.”
“That’s me,” said Billy.
“My name is Arthur Ross. Mr. Mobray met me in town last night; he said
to tell you that Jones gave him your letter. He just happened to meet
him. He insisted that I come here without delay. He will come just as
soon as he follows your instructions.”
“Did he tell you what I wanted you for?”
“No.”
The young man was dressed in corduroys and a slouch hat; he had a family
resemblance to the girl Billy had found on his homestead.
“Come into the pump house.”
The stranger read the words that Billy had tacked on the wall. His jaw
dropped suddenly.
“Where did you get this. Did Mr. Holman----”
“Exactly.”
“I do not understand.”
“You will when that machine gets here.” Billy pointed to a car crossing
the alfalfa. “They’s some people who carry this here stuff they call
chivalry in their pocketbook. Holman’s a sweet, kind gentleman. Just now
he’s coming to throw me off the ranch.”
The other did not answer. He was watching the machine coming from the
ranch house. It drew up at the shed. Holman was at the wheel and there
was evidently something on his mind; at the sight of Arthur Ross he
flushed slightly.
“Ah, Mr. Ross.” Apparently he did not know what to say. “It is a fine
morning. Is there--er--something that you want?”
“Decidedly,” answered the young man, “but perhaps you had better talk to
my friend here. He’s my agent.”
Holman did not conceal his anger now. He turned to Billy Magee.
“What do you want here! Do you know the rules of the Holman Land and
Water Company? Git out!”
Billy was modest to a tantalizing degree. He took off his hat and
smiled, half in triumph and half in amusement.
“Before I go, Mr. Holman, I would like to thank you for the killers that
you sent after me a while ago. Also I would like to stay until that
automobile gets here.” There was another machine coming through the
gate. “I want to hear what the United States marshal has to say about
it.”
“The United States marshal!”
“Exactly. If you will get out of the machine I have something to show
you.”
The big man did not like it but he did not demur. The three men entered
the pump house.
“Can you read, Mr. Holman?”
“Humph!”
“Yes, that’s it. That piece of paper is the homestead entry of Jennie
Ross--section twenty, southeast quarter, range twenty-six, Mount Diablo
meridian, which happens to be this identical and specified piece of
alfalfa. This is government land, Mr. Holman, even if you did happen to
have it covered up. It was open for entry and belonged to any one who
would properly file on it and live up to the conditions specified by the
government. Arthur Ross discovered it on the books at the land office
and Jennie Ross filed on it. Not only that; but they secured a surveyor
to direct them to the land. By a mere accident they happened to stop at
your ranch house. And because you did not wish to lose the land, even if
you had to steal it, you bribed the surveyor to locate them on my
hopeless piece of desolation out there in the desert. You knew that if
you could keep them from establishing residence for six months you could
have a dummy file a contest and cheat them out of their rights. You have
even gone as far as violence. I don’t know what your lawyer will call
it; but I do know that our good old Uncle Sam looks upon every
homesteader as his own private ward and goes after those who interfere
with them almighty hard. How about it, Mr. Marshal?”
The marshal was looking through the door. Pop Mobray was by his side.
Billy grinned.
“Nice little round-up we’re havin’. Eh, Holman?”
A few minutes later the president of the Holman Land and Water Company
was on his way to deposit bail, unroll red tape and fatten his lawyers
in the slow, unceasing roll of government justice.
When they were gone Billy turned to Arthur Ross.
“Go up and tell Jennie to come down and start her dream on a real piece
of land. Tell her I want her to pardon me for switching papers on her
while she was looking at her pies. And thank her for that piece of pie.”
And when Arthur Ross was gone he took a stub pencil from his pocket and
wrote upon the side of the pump house:
Where there’s more of singing and less of sighing,
Where there’s more of giving, and less of buying,
Where a man makes friends without half trying,
That’s where the West begins.
“Gosh,” he said, “a girl who sticks up a piece like that sure needs a
square deal. It’s real poetry. I’d like to meet the man who wrote it.”
THE END
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the October 20, 1928 issue
of Argosy All-Story Weekly magazine.]
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